


In My Bones

by wildwordwomyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwordwomyn/pseuds/wildwordwomyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Would you get down on your knees for me, John?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Bones

**Author's Note:**

> No real spoilers. And I gave this fic it's rating for (almost) graphic, consensual sex and pretty much plot-less porn. Yeah, I don't even know where this came from...

What do you do when just a sound can make every hair on the back of your neck stand on end? When a touch makes your whole body sing out in welcome? How do you contain the urge to bare yourself, offer yourself, in sacrifice?

These are the thoughts pinging around John Reese's brain each night lately. He's uncertain as to where they came from or why they won't leave. And it's Finch. Finch, of all people. Not that he hasn't been attracted for unknown reasons to those he's worked with in the past. It's just that in his fantasies he's always the one taking charge. Whether romantic or sexual he's giving orders, setting scenes, making things happen. That's how it is, and it's never been a problem.

Until now.

“ _Would you get down on your knees for me, John?”_

_It's embarrassing really how quickly John drops to his knees in front of the black leather sofa Finch bought for him, silent and waiting and too eager for the next command. There's isn't one. Not yet. Instead Finch runs a dry fingertip along his bottom lip teasingly, tenderly, smiling softly when John's breath sharpens._

_He presses down in the center, his expression patient. Expectant. John opens his mouth a little, unsurprised when the finger slides across his tongue, creeping back toward his throat, then retreating, then advancing. John can't help the whimper that escapes. Luckily he's rewarded by an indulgent sigh. It's permission to close his lips around Finch's index. To worship it with his mouth. He does so without hesitation, hollowing his cheeks for all he's worth._

“ _...Stop...,” Finch requests after a couple minutes, causing John's eyebrows to furrow in disappointment. He complies however. Finch pulls his finger out of John's mouth to discreetly wipe it on his pant leg, which comes across dirtier than it should. “I think you want something a little more... substantial ...filling you, don't you?”_

_John shudders. This is as naughty as the reserved man gets and it's sexier than anything he's ever heard. “Yes,” he whispers. It's the only answer he knows. The only one that matters._

_Finch leans as far back as he's capable of against the back of the sofa to unfasten his belt and unbutton his pants. “Then you can have it,” he murmurs._

_John finishes the job by pulling him carefully out of his boxers. He caresses the head with his fingers, his thumb, watching the older man's face hungrily. He doesn't have to wait anymore but this is a gift that has yet to be earned so he keeps caressing, holding, stroking. Once Finch nods he folds over to drink him down. Sucking whatever he can reach he pays the same loving attention to this act as he does everything else related to the genius. His eyelids fall by their own volition as he hums in satisfaction. It's easy to ignore his gag reflex when he thinks about the pleasure Finch is getting, the pleasure he's receiving._

_It's good, so very good, that when Finch tells him, “Come with me, John,” he's shocked to realize he's close enough to fulfill his wish. “Now.”_

_And that's all it takes. Without having to touch himself at all he's groaning, his mind blanking out while his body tenses and releases. He swallows gratefully, laying his head on Finch's thigh._

_A minute passes before they both recover. Once they do Finch runs a hand through his hair. John grins, happy, until that voice that can build him up or tear him down with a single word, asks, “You are mine, aren't you, Mr. Reese?”_

_It's a statement, not a question. His head raises so fast it makes him a little dizzy and he stares up at Finch, stricken. How did he ever get to a place where such a thing is possible? Where he can't dispute it?_

_Of course, what Finch says next is worse. Ten times worse. Because it's just as true and he knows it deep in his bones. “It's alright. You're where you belong...”_

It's wrong on so many levels, yet when he can't sleep at night, when he's looking out the windows of Finch's, no, his loft, this particular fantasy is all that relaxes him, that brings him peace. Accepting that the man owns everything here, including him. More, accepting that he wouldn't have it any other way. Somehow it settles him. John will lay down in his big bed alone, take a deep breath, imagine Finch beside him, and suddenly, effortlessly, slip into slumber.


End file.
